


of great ambition

by sketchedsmiles



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Explicit Language, Japanese Men’s National Volleyball Team (Haikyuu!!), M/M, Minor Sexual Content, Non-Linear Narrative, Osasuna, Post-Time Skip, Suna Rintarou-centric, a lot of feelings about suna rintarou, suna loves the miyas, sunaosa - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28434798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sketchedsmiles/pseuds/sketchedsmiles
Summary: There are many words associated with Suna Rintarou: laid back, flexible, lazy.It takes him almost three decades to add Olympian to the list.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 108
Kudos: 478
Collections: SunaOsa, haikyuu! content (but mostly sakuatsu angst and fluff for the 3am crying sessions)





	of great ambition

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to my suna national team brainrot

Ambitious is not a word associated with Suna Rintarou. Laid back, sure. Flexible, yes. Lazy is even used to describe him on occasion, though the reminder of that makes his lips curl. 

To an outsider sitting within the crowd looking on at Spring Nationals, one might watch the short middle blocker of Inarizaki High School and study him closely, wondering if his features ever morph into some semblance of excitement or whether he can mimic the enthusiastic shouts of the cheering squad that works as his support. One might wonder if the middle blocker plays the sport because it gives him something to do. That outsider might never come to the conclusion that Suna Rintarou—for all his straight faces and his cool attitude—is fighting his own battle up to the top.

The climb isn’t paved the same way for everyone. For those like Atsumu, their persistent repetition of the same practices over and over again resembles something close to what a monster for volleyball looks like. For those like Aran, gifted with the physical prowess needed at a young age, their bodies are born for it. 

The players like Suna tend to fall into a category of being good enough for a strong high school team, but not graced with the right abilities to pursue a professional career. 

That is exactly what he hears, word for word, after passing by a few reporters after Inarizaki crushes Karasuno in a rematch for the ages. The sheen of sweat coats his skin, gleaming beneath the powerful lights, and his legs guide him mindlessly in the direction of the changing rooms where he intends to enjoy the chorus of his team’s excitement before giving them all a fond smile himself. 

Suna draws his jersey up to wipe most of the droplets off his face. His exposed stomach prickles at the air that brushes against it, too cool for warm skin. He’s so distracted as he walks that the conversation between two reporters doesn’t reach his ears until he drops his arms to his sides again.

“What did you think of Inarizaki’s middle blocker? The one with the middle part? He’s their main blocker now, isn’t he? They had another one last year, but he’s graduated since.”

“Oh, him,” the other responds. “He’s fun to watch. The thing he does with his body is pretty cool.” 

Pretty cool. As if Suna doesn’t face the extreme risk of spraining himself every time he jumps up to hit a spike like that. As one misstep isn’t enough to do permanent damage. His eyebrows twitch, but he doesn’t dare to speak, although he does slow his walk in order to pick up the rest of their exchange. 

“Mmm. I heard Inarizaki recruited him especially for their school.”

“I mean, that makes sense. He shut down a lot of Karasuno’s spikes. Their ace really struggled to get past him. He’s quick.”

“Sure.” Suna thinks that the rest of the sentence will go unsaid, but he is proven wrong. “I don’t know. He’s cool to watch, I guess. Not as exciting as the Miyas. But compared to a lot of the other middle blockers here, he doesn’t stand out other than being able to hit the ball with the whole of his upper body. He’s one of the shortest blockers in the tournament. I wonder if he’s planning on going pro after graduation.”

“What do you think? Would he make it?”

“Eh. Maybe in a lower division. Not the first division for sure, though. He has to be taller. He’s good for Inarizaki, but his body isn’t fit for the big leagues. He can use his upper half as much as he likes, but it won’t make much of a difference in the end.”

“Oh. Well, he looked bored the whole game. I doubt he’s considering it. He seems pretty unambitious about it all.”

The rest of their conversation turns into white noise in Suna’s ears, and he comes to a full stop, his fists clenched at his sides. Of  _ course  _ he’s considered a professional career. He doesn’t care about much except for a few things: his sister, his team, and  _ volleyball _ . From the moment Inarizaki approached him to see if he was interested in moving to Hyogo, his heart has been set. He hasn’t considered any other options. He never thought he needed to. 

It’s ironic, he thinks, that the only thing he’s never gotten bored of is volleyball. 

Well, that, and—

“Suna?”

Suna lifts his head to find Osamu watching him, a question lingering in his eyes. Suna wonders whether he tracked back when he realized Suna wasn’t with the rest of the group or if he had slowed down waiting for him to catch up. The thrill of victory is evident in his every step, and Suna likes him like this: all sweaty and disheveled with the joy of doing something he loves. This—and cooking. Those are the two hobbies that bring that brighten Osamu the most. He’s noticed it all the more over the years.

Unfurling his fingers, he strides over to Osamu’s side. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Osamu says. 

The weight of his gaze is strong against the side of Suna’s head, but if he suspects anything, he doesn’t mention it. Suna doesn’t say anything either. He doesn’t need to. He takes the words of those two reporters and buries it deep inside his ribcage, imprinting the rush of anger onto his skin so that he never forgets it. 

Ambitious is not a word associated with Suna Rintarou yet, but he’ll chase his own ambitions if only to prove everyone else wrong, even if it kills him. 

* * *

Suna attends his career counseling appointment expecting to be laughed at, and perhaps the only reason he emerges out of the office with a fully-detailed plan and several interest letters is because Atsumu had his own appointment an hour earlier. It’s easier to keep a straight face when a second student tells you they want to pursue a professional career in volleyball after you’ve listened to another rant on and on about how he’s been sought out for Japan’s Youth Team and that this is the only career he’ll consider until the day he dies.

Osamu waits for him against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest, his head turned sideways towards the commotion at the end of the hall as a group of students shout at each other. 

“Hey,” Suna greets him, enjoying how Osamu swings towards him without a second of hesitation. 

“Hey,” Osamu says. There’s a tentative smile on his lips, though it’s ready to turn downward depending on how the meeting went. “How’d it go?”

“Fine.” Suna showcases the binder stuffed with his personal papers and plans that he’d organized last night. He didn’t want any reason for the counselor to doubt him or suggest that he should’ve done more research on his own time. He’d wanted to be prepared. “She’ll contact Kurosu-sensei, and they’ll talk things more from there.”

Osamu nods. “That’s what she did for Tsumu too. Did she give ya any weird looks?”

“No. But it’s much easier going after Atsumu basically threatened to never leave her office if she didn’t approve of his career choice.”

“Yeah, ya come off as pretty normal in comparison.”

“ _ Everyone  _ comes off as pretty normal in comparison to Atsumu.”

There is no disagreeing with that statement. Osamu can attest to that universal truth the most. “Yer right.”

Suna jerks his chin in Osamu’s direction. “How about you? I didn’t get the chance to ask before. What did she say when you told her about Onigiri Miya?”

Osamu blows out a harsh breath, strong enough that the gray locks on his forehead fly upward for a second before falling back down. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his uniform pants. “Yeah. Well.” His mouth twists, and Suna knows immediately that the conversation did not go as well as Osamu hoped it would. “She said I had to be realistic about it. It would be logical to head into the food industry as an entry-level cook in the kitchen before working up to opening my own business in a few years.”

“A few years?”

“A few years meaning a decade, probably.” He shrugs, acting all nonchalant, as if the counselor hadn’t taken his aspirations and stomped on them beneath her shoes. “Yeah.”

“Osamu.”

“It’s fine, really. I know it’s unrealistic to even consider opening a business from scratch—especially straight out of high school. She has a point.”

Suna understands this. He knows this perfectly, but ever since he heard those two reporters reflect on what his future holds for him behind his back, he’s become acutely aware that these earth-grounding conversations can be held with a little more tact and a lot more gentleness. 

No matter how much Osamu acts as if this is only a minor step back, it’ll dig at his resolve until the regret piles higher and higher onto his shoulders. Osamu doesn’t need more of that. He has enough of an internal debate going on with himself already, with voices buzzing inside his mind that sound too much like Atsumu, yelling, “ _ You will never be as happy as me if ya go down this path _ .” 

It’s not fair.

“Who cares?” Suna says. “Who cares if it’s unrealistic? You’re young. If this doesn’t work out, then you try again—or you try something different. It’s  _ fine.  _ I don’t know why adults think that changing your mind or even starting over is a sign of failure. It’ll be fine, Osamu.”

His lips quirk up, and Suna sucks air between his teeth. 

“Yer right,” Osamu says. “Thanks for that, Suna.”

There’s a different kind of commotion coming from the hall now, a louder, more insistent hum of voices as the students rush to grab their lunches before their next class. Osamu cocks his head in the direction of the noise. “C’mon. Let’s get lunch.”

Suna follows right beside him, his binder clutched to his chest, and all the while he thinks that he doesn’t want to ever start over or try something different, because once his mind is set on something, that’s it. His mind is set on volleyball, so either volleyball works out for him or he sinks into a pit too deep to crawl out of. In this, he understands the adults a little better.

He’s given himself so completely to one dream that failure would devastate him.

* * *

Suna hasn’t always been set on volleyball. In fact, there is a long period of time in his life in the beginning of middle school where volleyball is something he does—rather than something he becomes.

He’s always been a middle blocker. Several coaches over the years have tried talking him out of it with remarks that he isn’t very tall—that he won’t grow much more. His mother talks to him sometimes about people who hit their growth spurts later in life.

“Sometimes, people are short but they have tall legs,” she says to him one day when they’re sitting on the sidelines at one of his middle school tournaments. 

His game had already happened, the first on the roster, and they’d lost. His blocking had been perfect as usual, but most of their attacks had failed to land, and Suna doesn’t help much in that regard. He’s not incredibly powerful. He can provide as another attacker, but the sets never come to him because his swings are so weak. 

It doesn’t matter. He’s there to block—not to attack. He’s not a spiker. It doesn’t  _ matter. _

Yet, as he listens to his mother’s thoughts while watching the next game, he realizes that it does matter. It matters to him, because his inability to attack becomes the difference between his team remaining on the court or walking off it. The rest of them have already gone home, and Suna wants to join them, but his mother is so insistent on watching the rest of the matches that he obliges her, peering down from the overhead stands while chewing on a banana.

“What do you mean?” Suna squints down at the vast sea of players, trying to understand what she’s referring to. There are already many tall players in middle school, stretching so high that they barely have to jump to overcome the net. Suna wishes he was like that. “Tall legs? You mean their legs are long?”

“No,” she replies with a soft smile reserved for her son. “I mean they have tall legs.” She pokes at Suna’s knees. “You can tell by looking at their knees—and below them too. It’s like the bones are waiting for the right moment to stretch.”

Suna chomps down on his banana. “Does that mean I have tall legs?”

“What do you think?”

Suna looks down at his legs before swinging them. “I don’t know. Sensei keeps telling me I won’t grow much more. That I should switch positions now rather than later.”

“That wasn’t my question, Rin-chan.”

He takes another bite, chewing slowly as he thinks about the question more. He’s never studied his knees like this. He can see all of the individual bruises he’s collected over the years from volleyball, staining his skin like a permanent marker. 

“I hope I have tall legs,” he answers instead. “That would make blocking much easier.”

A hand reaches over to cover his head, and he lets out a squeak of surprise. “Rin-chan,” his mother murmurs. “Things that are out of your control might not always happen as you’d like them to. Your coaches might be right. You might not grow much taller.”

Suna opens his mouth, thinking,  _ then what was all the talk about tall legs for _ —

“But you will,” she continues. “A little. Your legs haven’t finished growing yet.”

Pleased, Suna straightens in his seat and finishes the last of his banana, folding the peel over itself to dispose of later. 

“But you’re going to meet a lot of people that are taller than you,” his mother murmurs. “You understand that, right? If you want to continue as a middle blocker, you have to be aware of that. You might never be the tallest person in the room.”

His shoulders slump, and it’s like the momentary rush of excitement he’d felt before at the idea of growing taller has never existed at all. 

“ _ But  _ you can fight in other ways. You don’t have to be tall to have tall legs, Rin-chan.”

It’s one of those moments where somewhere along all of the words, Suna has gotten lost. He thinks that this is something he should hold onto for the rest of his life, but the meaning is unclear, and he can’t wrap his mind around it. Instead, he glances back at the match. 

One of the spikers in a striking red uniform leaps up as the setter sends him the ball in a high arc, and the opposing blockers all jump in unison, their timing impeccable. It’s a double block, and Suna knows for sure that they’ve shut him down.

But then the ball slams into the court on the other side, and Suna gasps, grabbing ahold of the railing to peer forward. The spiker straightens, ignoring the wide-eyed gazes of the blockers as they whirl around, trying to make sense of what happened. 

But from his view from above, Suna sees it all. The spiker is several centimeters shorter than the tallest blocker, but he was unfazed as he strode forward to earn his team the point. He never hesitated once, even as he hit the ball  _ around  _ the wall.

“Did you see that?” Suna’s voice is filled with quiet wonder. “How did he do that?”

“He hit the ball with his entire upper body, kid,” a stranger nearby answers. “It’s incredibly risky. You can get injured doing that if you’re not careful. It requires perfect maintenance of your body, but when you master it, it becomes difficult to be stopped by anything less than a triple block.”

“So he—” Suna pauses to twist his body sideways, almost mimicking how still the spiker had been in midair, his form poised to avoid the wall at all costs. It hadn’t mattered that the wall had overpowered him. He’d gone around. 

The stranger laughs and dips his head toward Suna. “Yeah, kinda.”

“Can anyone do that?”

Before the stranger can respond, his mother steps in, a hand firm on his shoulder. She brings her face close to his and whispers, “Anyone ambitious enough to try.”

* * *

That day on, Suna comes to practice as a completely changed version of himself. No one ever sees his morning and nightly workouts, aimed at strengthening his core until his abdomen tightens and hardens. No one ever sees the meticulous manner in which he goes about his stretches from then on, pushing his body’s limits higher and higher. No one ever sees his breakdowns when he crumples on the floor of his bedroom in quiet sobs, questioning whether he’ll ever be strong enough to do it himself or whether this is even worth it at all. 

But everyone sees the first time Suna nails the full upper body spike during a match—including Inarizaki.

* * *

Atsumu gets signed to a first division team straight out of high school.

This does not come as a surprise to Suna. Atsumu has it all: the perfect sets, the national recognition, the complete focus on the sport. Other than his occasionally bratty attitude, there is no reason for any team to  _ not  _ be interested in one half of the Miya twins. 

Atsumu started bragging about the interest several teams in the V. League had in him halfway through their third year. It makes sense that he’d brag when he actually signs a contract. 

They’re sitting on the steps outside of Inarizaki’s gymnasium. The rest of the underclassmen have gone home already, having tidied up the equipment and wished them farewell. It’s just Atsumu, Osamu, Ginjima, and Suna left to dawdle, and Suna is in the middle of sucking on an ice pop.

“The Black Jackals, can ya believe it?” Atsumu cries out for the third time in the span of one hour. 

“Yer not their official setter yet, Atsumu,” Gin says, because if either Osamu or Suna responds, the venom behind their words will be impossible to disguise. Osamu doesn’t need to hear how his brother already has evidence of his success; Suna doesn’t need the reminder that, if he and Atsumu are in a race, he’s already miles behind. “I know it’s super great, but ya still hafta keep workin’, ya know?”

“Obviously!” Atsumu puts his hands on his hips. “But it’s only a matter of time before I become the first-string setter. I can feel it.”

“Don’t get ahead of yerself,” Osamu mutters. His knees are pulled up to his chest, and the breeze brushes the gray tufts of his hair aside. He’s already decided to stop dyeing it after high school. Suna knows because Osamu has asked him to accompany him to the appointment he’s already made. “Ya think life as a professional athlete is gonna be anythin’ like how it is now? Ya won’t have Mama’s cooking to live off.”

“Shut up, Samu!” He sticks his tongue out at Osamu. “Yer just jealous.”

“Jealous? Of the teammates that are gonna have to put up with ya every day? No thanks.”

“Isn’t Bokuto Koutarou on MSBY?” Suna asks, his first real contribution to the conversation in a while. “Fukurodani’s ace? If anything, I feel bad for him.”

“Atsumu?”

“No, Bokuto-san. Good riddance to you, Atsumu.” Suna lifts his ice pop in a mock salute. “I’ll be sending your team a fruit basket and a note that says, ‘Good luck, suckers.’”

Osamu laughs at the exact moment Suna slurps on his ice pop—which only makes Osamu look away, covering his face. Suna’s eyebrows furrow but he says nothing of it before meeting Atsumu’s gaze, sensing a response in the making.

“What ‘bout ya, Suna?” Atsumu levels a hard look at him. It’s his most annoying expression because it always makes someone want to punch him out of spite. Suna hopes that Atsumu will mellow with age, but that feels like an impossible feat. He really does wish the MSBY Black Jackals the best of luck. Even as laid back as he is, he’s been tempted to knock Atsumu down a peg more than once. “Yer meant to go pro too, aren’t ya? Don’t let me beat ya so soon.”

Suna scowls for a split second before his features smoothen out—as if the temporary lapse in his control never occurred to begin with. He won’t let Atsumu get under his skin. Atsumu is riding a high because of his newly signed contract. He doesn’t mean for his claws to strike so close to the heart.

“You’re not beating me, Atsumu.” He stops long enough to slurp on his ice pop some more, partly because it means Atsumu has to wait longer for his answer, which pisses him off even more. “Just because I’m moving at my own pace doesn’t mean I won’t catch up.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Gin lifts a hand as if to stop the fight before it starts. But Osamu is the one to actually speak.

He lifts his head from where it has been pressed against his kneecaps, and he says, in a flat voice, “Leave him alone, Tsumu. We get it. Yer happy. No need to be a brat ‘bout it.”

Suna can see the steam coming out of Atsumu’s ears. “I am  _ not  _ bein’ a brat about it! Gin, am I bein’ a brat about it?”

“Don’t answer that, Gin,” Osamu interrupts. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” His smirk is the most cunning Suna has ever seen it when he flashes it at Atsumu. “When ya do play Suna’s team, I’ll be rootin’ for him instead of ya.”

“ _ What _ ?” Atsumu shouts at the same instant Suna mumbles, “Huh?”

For some reason, even though he’s fixated on playing volleyball until age catches up with him and his body gives out, he’s never fully registered that going professional means that his name will be sold in mass production on jerseys with a new number and the colors of his new team. He’s never imagined his old friends wearing his jersey as their own show of support. He’s never considered  _ Osamu  _ wearing his jersey. With his number. And his name.

“Huh,” Suna repeats over the string of Atsumu’s irksome complaints. “Oh.”

The rest of his ice pop is melting in his hand, and he brings it closer to Osamu, who has a faint dust of pink across his cheeks as he resumes his usual position: knees hugged against his chest. “Do you want some?” Suna asks.

For some reason, Osamu doesn’t answer. His flush deepens, and Suna is tempted to ask Osamu if he’s coming down with something before Osamu buries his face in his sweatpants, mumbling out a feeble, “No.”

With a shrug, Suna pops the ice pop in his mouth and wonders how Osamu would look with his name printed across his back. 

* * *

Suna has Aran’s number on speed dial. It’s right below his parents’, his sister’s, Osamu’s, and Kita’s. Suna has called him more than he’s ever done in his entire life until now, and it’s mostly after he attends another tryout and he needs a calming presence to settle him.

He can always call Kita too, but since Aran has been through this process himself, he is more familiar with the conflicting waves of excitement and trepidation. 

“Yer doin’ fine, Suna,” Aran tells him after the first tryout—after Suna scratches his knees in a rush to tear his knee pads  _ off. _

“Don’t rush it,” Aran urges after Suna turns off his phone after a particularly difficult conversation with a coach that might’ve been—maybe—interested in him. 

“Yer almost there,” Aran says, and Suna wants to scream. He wants to know  _ when, when, when.  _ He wants to know how Aran knows that his attempts aren’t fruitless. He wants to have the reassurance that, even though it’s only been two weeks since he’s graduated, this rocky road has an end to it. 

Aran shows up in person one day—with Kita in tow—and the two of them sort through his stack of documents and offers. Aran gives his own expert advice, and Kita is there to calm Suna down even when Suna’s incessant finger tapping against the table becomes unbearable.

Aran is the first person he tells when EJP Raijin offers him a contract.

* * *

Osamu is the first person he tells when he  _ signs  _ the contract.

Suna bursts out of his house, the door swinging behind him as he dashes out into the street, his phone clutched in his hand. His parents are both at work, and his younger sister is stuck at school, and even though they’re both aware of the offer EJP Raijin has made, there’s something electrifying about the split second after the signatures have all been accounted for, and the contract is finalized. This is it. He’s going to be a middle blocker for a division one team. He has to tell  _ someone _ .

Suna has no qualms about taking the shortcut to the Miyas’ residence. His legs guide him without thought, having brought him this direction countless times. Whether he’s summoned because Osamu has a new recipe he wants Suna to test for him or because Atsumu needs his input on an argument the two are having, Suna has been over to their place on numerous occasions. He and the twins often walk home together, seeing as their houses aren’t separated by a great deal of distance. 

When he knocks on their front door, it comes as a pleasant surprise that Osamu is the one to greet him. “Hey!” Osamu says. “I’m in the middle of cookin’ tuna mayo onigiri. Ya mind testing it for me?”

“Sure.” At the sight of Osamu’s disheveled appearance, any thoughts about his contract have been knocked out of his brain. It’s clear Osamu has been hard at work, his apron smudged with stains and his hair pushed back from his face, and it’s such a domestic image that—for a second—Suna feels as though he’s been punched in the chest. 

It takes an incredible amount of effort to disguise the war of emotions flooding through him as he bends over to pull his shoes off and slip a pair of slippers on. He wears the same ones each time; it’s almost as if they’re specifically his slippers for when he comes over. 

After Osamu shuts the door behind him, Suna follows him into the kitchen. A messy display of onigiri is stacked in rows on the counter, and Osamu plucks the one closest to him before stuffing it in Suna’s face. All Suna can do is part his lips before the rice ball meets his mouth, and he brings a hand up to grab it from Osamu. He chews thoughtfully, knowing best that Osamu wants his honest opinion. 

“It’s good,” he murmurs after swallowing. “Maybe a little more filling next time?”

Osamu nods eagerly, taking Suna’s advice to heart. “More filling. Gotcha. Other than that, it’s good though?”

Suna is a little touched that Osamu values his thoughts enough to let them influence how he approaches his future recipes. “Yeah. It’s good. Nice job, Osamu.”

“Thank you.” Osamu ducks his head. “I didn’t have Tsumu around to test them for me, so I’m glad ya showed up when ya did. Otherwise I would’ve had to wait for my parents to show up instead.”

“You know I’ll always be your taste tester.” He sweeps his gaze around. It hadn’t piqued his interest before, but now that Osamu has mentioned Atsumu’s absence, the silence is noticeable. “Where is Atsumu?”

“Looking at apartments in Osaka. He needs to make up his mind and sign a rental agreement soon. He has a few options, but he can’t narrow them down.”

Suna snorts. “Sounds like Atsumu.” At the mention of Osaka, Suna is reminded of his initial reason for coming here. “By the way, I have news.”

His lips curve in a slight smile. “Yeah? What kind of news?”

“I’ve signed the contract.” Speaking the words out loud brings him far more joy than he ever could’ve anticipated. It’s the act of undoing his secret worries and letting them become his tentative future that makes it liberating. “You’re looking at EJP Raijin’s newest middle blocker.”

Even then, the joy he feels with his announcement is nothing compared to the joy he feels when Osamu tackles him to the ground in a bone-crushing hug. 

* * *

Suna meets the famous Miya twins on his first day at Inarizaki High School. 

It’s nerve-wracking, coming all the way from Aichi specifically at Inarizaki’s request, having to move his entire family to another prefecture in the hopes of chasing some fleeting glory on a high school volleyball team. But the recruiters of Inarizaki promise him a starting position, and they admire his blocks and his attacks, and Suna would be lying if he says he isn’t smitten. 

Even with all of his confidence resting on his shoulders, he knows Inarizaki is a powerhouse school. There will be several top players that match his skill level and that are perhaps even a caliber higher than he is. 

He can slack off, but he’s not going to. He’s made one promise to himself in his volleyball career: he will never cut corners when it comes to maintaining his core strength. If he wants to continue to be able to hit spikes with his upper body, that fact will never change.

Still, nothing he tells himself can prepare him for the shadow he enters when he encounters the dangerous pair for the first time.

He stalks over in the direction of the gymnasium towards the sounds of squeaking sneakers and volleyballs pummeling the hardwood floors. He knows his route perfectly; he’s studied it multiple times. But he doesn’t expect to find a pair of other first years perched on the steps just outside, whispering to each other as they watch what is happening inside. 

Their matching heads of dark brown waves throw Suna off for a brief moment before their excited whispers reach him. 

“Look at Aran-kun spike!” one says to the other, pointing out the tall ace that has just slammed a volleyball beyond the net and onto the other side of the court. “That was so strong.”

“Is that our captain, do ya think?” the other asks. Suna has no idea which player they’re referring to, but he already recognizes the captain even from a distance. “Should we introduce ourselves to him first?”

“You should probably enter the gym first,” Suna says. “Or are you going to watch them outside forever?”

Two pairs of stunned eyes swing in his direction, but he pays them no mind as he plops down on the steps next to them, pulling his sneakers on to join the team inside. These first years can stay outside all they like. Suna intends on stepping on the court. 

“Who do ya think yer talkin’ to?” One of them asks, and Suna can tell that this is the more brazen of the two. It’s evident by the contemptuous tone to his voice that he’s taken offense to Suna already. It’ll take Suna a while to figure out what sets the twins apart in features, but he’ll get there. It would be better if one of them had a different hair color or something, though. That’s going to be a pain on the court. 

“Tsumu—” the other hisses. 

“You’re the Miya twins,” Suna states, matter-of-fact. He relishes in the way the first brother reels back at his declaration. “I know who you are. Atsumu and Osamu. I don’t know who’s who, though. Sorry.”

“I’m Atsumu,” the first twin says. Suna glances past him just once to see who must be Osamu lift his hand up in a tentative wave. “If ya know who we are, why are ya askin’ what we’re doin’ here?”

“I didn’t ask what you’re doing here. I asked what you’re doing outside.”

“Psh!” Atsumu splutters. “We  _ are  _ gonna go inside. In just a second. Right, Samu?” 

Osamu nods, but his gaze is on Suna. “Yer not from here,” he says, addressing Suna for the first time.

“No,” Suna says. “I was recruited from Aichi.” He finishes tying the laces on his right sneaker and stands up. He brushes the invisible dust off his shorts and straightens, as much as he can with his usual slouch. “I’m a middle blocker.”

From the snide look Atsumu sends his way, Suna can guess what he’s thinking.  _ What makes ya so good ya got recruited from outside the prefecture? How are ya meant to be a middle blocker if ya barely scrape six feet?  _

“Yer Suna,” Osamu says, drawing Suna’s attention to him once more. There’s something purposeful about the way Osamu speaks, even if he doesn’t rush in with the same intensity as his double. Even if his voice is softer. “Suna Rintarou.”

The use of his full name makes Suna pause. “How did you know?”

“I’ve seen you.” Osamu scratches the nape of his neck. “We’re in the same class together.”

Suna knows that. He’s shocked that Osamu knows that. During roll call, it was involuntary for him to stiffen at the call of the name  _ Miya, Osamu _ . 

“Yeah,” Suna replies. “We are.” He peeks into the gymnasium where the team have started their group stretches. There’s no better time to announce his presence. “Are you two coming or what?”

Atsumu’s face reddens even more, and all Suna can think is,  _ wow, I have to put up with this for three years.  _ “’Course we’re comin’!” he snarls. 

“How am I meant to tell you apart?” Suna asks while waiting for Osamu to get to his feet. “I can’t always look at your number in the middle of a game. You two don’t even style your hair differently. Can you wear a hat or something?”

Osamu makes a sound under his breath, and it takes Suna a second to realize that it’s a laugh. “Yer funny, Suna. Yer my new favorite teammate.”

“Uh—yer twin brother is right here,” Atsumu says. He scoffs at Suna before striding into the gym to a loud chorus of greetings. 

“Ya hafta side with me against Tsumu,” Osamu continues while smoothening down the front of his shirt. Suna criticized the pair of them for taking their sweet time, but he holds his tongue when it’s him and Osamu alone. He gets the sense that both of them are more nervous than what appears at first glance. “He’s unbearable. He has such a massive ego, you’ll see. Ya hafta take my side. As my new favorite teammate.”

Suna’s lips flatten. He’s not exactly keen on putting effort into much else other than volleyball. He doesn’t want to be stuck in the middle of petty arguments between twins too. He simply doesn’t care. “Right.”

The Suna of his first year is so young. So naïve. He has no idea that he’ll wind up siding with Osamu on most things without much thought dozens of times in the future. He has no idea that the two terrified twins he found watching volleyball from a distance will become some of his favorite people. He has no idea that Miya Osamu will become  _ his  _ favorite teammate—without a doubt. 

* * *

Yellow isn’t a color he imagines fitting him, but it’s the color he chooses. Over and over again. 

EJP Raijin has always been more of a concept rather than a concrete thing, and the world of the V. League is a sea of unfamiliarity, and as much as he’s certain this is what he wants to do with his life, leaving Hyogo to dive headfirst into his future as a full-time athlete leaves him winded.

It isn’t just that the distance keeps him further away from his family or that the intense practice schedule exhausts him. It’s that, for those first few weeks, he has to find comfort in the closer, more tangible things. He can’t always call Atsumu or Aran; he records their matches instead. He can’t always reply back to his sister’s text messages, but he puts up a succulent she bought him as a moving-in present for his apartment that reminds him of her every time he looks at it. He doesn’t see Osamu all the time, so he tells himself that it’ll be worth it when Osamu watches him play in his first match.

Komori Motoya and Washio Tatsuki are completely different from the teammates he’s grown up with. This time, everyone here understands that they’re all on the same level, and they all intend to play volleyball to their fullest potentials. Their personalities cannot be more dissimilar, and it takes Suna a few weeks to settle into them, like dipping his toes in warm water before jumping in the rest of the way. But when his feet hit the bottom of the pool, it’s worth it. 

The three of them are very much in the same boat. They’ve all gone to Nationals, they’ve all proven themselves, and they all intend to win as many matches as they can. While they lack the experience the older players have, their determination guides them until they can foster that experience for themselves. 

Still, even with that sense of camaraderie, there are many instances after practice, when Suna is in the middle of his cooldown, stretching every limb and muscle in his body as he always does, pushing himself further each time, that he thinks that the V. League is incredibly  _ serious. _

He’s always known it was serious, and he’s always been serious about volleyball, even when he looked for ways to lessen its physical toll. But the severity of each game hangs over his every move, his every practice, his every stretch. Even if he wants to slack off—which he  _ doesn’t _ —there isn’t any room to. If you fall behind for even a moment, the rest of the team sprints ahead, and too much ground separates you from the rest. 

He won’t fail. He refuses to. Even though he’s made it this far—even though he’s proven those reporters wrong and has signed a contract for a team in the first division—it’s not enough. He wants to hold onto victory as long as he can. He holds onto failure enough. He remembers the failures of losing to Itachiyama and Karasuno, and he wants to ward off the sensation of loss for as long as possible. 

He wants to push his limits higher. 

He thinks that he understands now what his mother was trying to explain all those years ago when she mentioned the idea of “tall legs.”

Suna hasn’t grown much more. He’s six foot three, which is  _ tall _ , but not tall for a middle blocker. When he studies some of the other middle blockers in the league—those who were his current height when they were in  _ high school _ —he’s aware of his disadvantage. Even then, his ambitions haven’t changed.

It’s not enough. He’s not satisfied. 

He wonders when the bored, straight-faced expression he used to wear all the time turned into a look of hunger. 

It doesn’t matter that he isn’t tall. He fights in a division with players that are far shorter than him, and they never cease to impress him with how they continue their climb to the top, even if they’re starting at a lower height. It doesn’t matter that he isn’t tall, because he knows now that his height—or lack thereof—isn’t going to stop him from wanting  _ more. _

Ambitious is not a word associated with Suna Rintarou, but it’s a word he becomes. 

* * *

Most of his former team show up to his first ever match against the DESEO Hornets. 

His nerves bubble in his stomach, different from the nerves he used to get in high school. The V. League is less forgiving than his old cheer squad. If he messes up too much, the crowd will be sure to let him know. He doesn’t want to start off on the wrong foot. He doesn’t want to give anyone a reason to think he doesn’t deserve to be here. He’s worked for this. He wants to be here. 

He takes comfort in the fact that it’s Komori’s first match too. Although the bubbly libero never gives any indication that he’s anxious about playing for the first time, it’s easier knowing that the attention will be split between them. Their captain has already pulled the two of them to the side to gauge their emotions before the game begins. He’s reassured multiple times that the rest of the team has their backs, which is a relief when the assurance comes straight from the captain’s lips. 

Still, his stomach twists in on itself when he steps out onto the court for their pre-game warmups. The yellow accents of his uniform shine beneath the overhead lights, and his sneakers squeak against the hardwood with each step he takes. The sounds from the crowds become more deafening as both teams emerge from the locker rooms, and he revels in the great chorus, despite the fact that his insides are tearing himself apart.

He stands beside Komori in their stretching circle, and every singular thought in his mind vanishes as he focuses on this one task at hand. He needs to take particular care of his core. He’s so lost in thought that Komori’s voice takes a second longer than it should to grab his attention.

“Isn’t that—Inarizaki?” he asks.

The name of his former high school sends a jolt down Suna’s spine. “Huh?”

“Not all of them, I think. But some.” Before switching to stretch his other arm behind his head, he points out a group of people in the higher stands. 

Suna follows the direction of his finger, and for once in his life, the absolute shock on his face is impossible to hide. There is a section in the higher stands that is completely filled with some of his former teammates. His gaze picks out Kita near the front, his black-and-white hair unmistakable, and he finds Akagi and Omimi on Kita’s right. Gin stands in the middle of the steps leading across the stands, braced on his tip-toes. It takes Suna a second to realize that he’s wearing a jersey with Suna’s number, and Suna forces himself to maintain the stretch instead of losing focus and returning Gin’s bright grin. 

Suna’s gaze drifts to the right, and his nails dig into his skin when his eyes fall on his parents, seated primly in the row above his former teammates. His younger sister is next to them, her legs swinging wildly beneath her, and Suna remembers the smile in her voice when they had spoken last night. She’d known they were surprising him, and she’d kept it a secret anyway. 

He steels himself with a breath as he prepares to stretch downward, but an involuntary hum leaves him when he recognizes the person seated between his sister and Gin’s empty spot.

Osamu knows that Suna’s attention is all on him. He joins Gin in waving frantically to keep his attention on them, and even Suna knows that his scowl is forced when he ducks his head to hide his delight from the prying cameras.

“So?” Komori nudges him with his foot. “Seems like you’ve got quite the fanbase.”

“Your family is here too,” he says through gritted teeth. “I literally met your parents ten minutes ago.”

“I know. But you were insistent that no one would show up. Guess they proved you wrong, huh?”

“Mmm,” Suna hums, but in the back of his mind, he thinks that he should’ve known better. They had all shown up to Aran’s first match, and Osamu had texted him that they’d attended Atsumu’s first match last weekend. He should’ve known better. No matter how much it feels like his journey into playing professional volleyball is a solitary one, he knows that’s not the case. From the first moment he met the rest of the Inarizaki team, they have had his back. 

“You still feeling nervous?”

“You’ll be fine, Suna,” Washio cuts in from his right. “You’ll both be fine.”

It’s almost as if the nerves from before have evaporated into thin air. His stomach has settled, and every movement he makes is sharp. His limbs are nimble and loose, and his muscles sing in response to the attention Suna gives them. Komori is right. And so is Washio, for that matter. Any anxiety he might’ve had no longer troubles him. He merely has to do what he’s always done for Inarizaki: wait and watch the set—and then block. The support of his teammates is the living proof he needs that he’s done this a thousand times before. There is no reason for his body to fail him now.

His lips curve upward. “I know,” Suna says. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

* * *

When international break arrives, Atsumu and Aran are called up. 

Suna is not.

He thinks he’s past these crushing blows now that he’s one of EJP Raijin’s starting middle blockers, but each time, it’s a punch to the gut that immobilizes him. It’s like the mountain grows even taller, and the view of the top is no longer in reach. 

With the arrival of summer and the subsequent end of the V. League season, there is nothing to occupy Suna’s attention anymore. He heads back to Hyogo, separating his time between his family and going about his individual exercises alone. 

When the first game arrives, Suna doesn’t reject Osamu’s invitation to reunite with the rest of their old team at the building he’s started renting a month ago. He remembers the exact moment Osamu signed the agreement because he listens to the excited voicemail Osamu left on his phone whenever he needs to calm down. It’s the future site of what will become Onigiri Miya. Suna can’t help but smile at the visible reminder that Osamu is catching up to Atsumu, no matter what the latter says.

Onigiri Miya still hasn’t opened for business yet. Osamu has a contract with Kita planned for their rice supply, and he’s bought most of the appliances in anticipation of sprucing up the kitchen. There is still a lot to do, as Suna knows firsthand. Whenever Osamu is up late at night worrying about the costs and finances behind his business, Suna is the first person he calls. He’s privy to Osamu’s deepest vulnerabilities in a way Osamu can never admit to Atsumu—not so long as they’re stuck in this fated competition to see who will live a happier life. But Suna does his best to listen, and he whispers his reassurances in the hopes that one will stick.

But each day brings Osamu a step closer to the business of his dreams, and when Suna walks through the front door, the space that greets him flashes for a second, transforming into the floor plan that Osamu has shown off to him multiple times. He envisions the counter, the tables, and the customers. He envisions Osamu behind the register, bright-eyed and beaming, because he’s doing what he’s always been most ambitious about. 

With a blink of his eye, the vision falls apart, and his footsteps alert the rest of his team to his presence. Everyone is gathered around the television Osamu has set up for this very purpose, huddled close together to see who will be the first to catch a glimpse of either Aran or Atsumu.

Kita is the first to turn around, and he graces Suna with a slight smile that is far more than his usual show of emotion. “Suna,” he says by way of greeting. “I’m glad ya could make it.”

“Yeah, we’ve missed ya ‘round here,” Gin adds. His hair is shorter than the last time Suna saw him, and he notes these small differences with time, the notable changes that happen as people grow older and distance is created. Suna questions whether they’ve noticed the changes he’s had, or whether he’s still as constant as ever in their eyes. “Come take a seat.”

“Sure,” Suna says. “Where’s Osamu?”

On cue, the back door swings open, and Osamu emerges from the other room. His expression visibly brightens when he spots Suna waiting by the front door, and Suna would be lying if he said that the sight didn’t bring him a lick of satisfaction. Osamu’s time spent away from volleyball hasn’t done any less for his physique. If anything, his muscles are more toned than they were before as he grows into his body as a young adult, and his shoulders have widened. All of that time spent lugging around bags of rice on Kita’s farm have done him well, and even with the perpetual stress etching furrows into his face, anyone can see that Osamu is cheerful as his dreams begin to fall into place.

“Hey, Suna,” Osamu greets him, beaming. “Glad ya could make it.”

“Yeah. Well. Didn’t really have anything else to do.” If there’s a trace of bitterness in his tone, no one says anything about it. He wonders if they’ve discussed beforehand how to breach the topic of international duty with Suna—if there is a certain amount of sensitivity they’re willing to oblige him with.

“Well, we’re all glad yer here.” Osamu pulls something out from behind his back, and out of the corner of his eye, Suna notices everyone’s attention return to the screen. That is, everyone except Kita, who watches them with his usual unwavering gaze. “Check this out.”

When he thrusts his arms forward, Suna realizes that it is a black cap with a large logo imprinted on the front. It’s the Onigiri Miya logo that Osamu has tentatively decided on. 

“Do ya like it?” Osamu asks. “Or do ya think the logo should be smaller?”

“No.” Suna inspects the cap from side to side, but he can tell the stitching has been done with precision. “The logo is a good size, I think. Noticeable. It’s really nice.” He shakes it out a bit, and the wrinkles in the fabric vanish. “Is this the final design?”

“Yeah, I think so.” 

Osamu peers at his expression, assessing whether his response is genuine. Once again, Suna is pleased that Osamu values his opinion as much as he does. He should already realize this, considering Osamu sent him all of the previous designs for his comments then too. But it’s always a nice surprise. It makes him feel less alone in wanting Osamu’s unfaltering support. 

Osamu takes the cap from his grasp and places it on Suna’s head, pushing it down until it fits snugly around the crown. “Here,” Osamu says. “You can keep this one. I’m gonna order more tomorrow for the rest of the employees anyway.”

“Thanks,” Suna mutters. His neck feels warmer than usual. He opens his mouth to say something, but a shriek puts an effective end to their conversation.

“Look!” Akagi shouts, jabbing a finger at the screen. “I think I just saw Atsumu.”

That sinking feeling returns to his stomach, and the warmth he felt a second ago fades, leaving an emptiness behind in its wake. 

“Suna,” Kita calls. He pats the spot on the floor next to him. “Come sit. You too, Osamu.”

Kita’s observation skills never fail to amaze him. Even if he wants to, he can’t refuse to follow the command. Even if he wants to run out the door and run until his lungs are ready to burst, he can’t turn his back on them. It’s not fair for him to wallow in his own sadness when Atsumu and Aran have hit their own momentous achievement. If anything, he should be excited for them. They haven’t worked less than Suna has. They aren’t less deserving of the position than he is. But Suna can’t push past the bubble of frustration and that nagging voice that taunts him in the back of his mind, whispering that even now, he lags behind the rest of his teammates.

That bubble sits inside him even as he curls up on the floor beside Kita. The tension within eases a tad when Osamu sits on his right, but when he looks at the screen to find a mirage of red and white, it takes everything he has not to cry.

* * *

Suna has dreamed of a mirage of red and white since middle school. He lets himself consider the slim possibility that—maybe—he will be summoned to join the National Team one day in the distant future a month after he agrees to join Inarizaki High School. 

He sits on the floor in front of his television. Behind him, his younger sister sits at their table, a set of coloring books splayed about in front of her. She has taken to only using red and white on each page, regardless of the design she fills in, and the book has become a splash of those two colors. She isn’t interested very much in volleyball, even with Suna’s renewed captivation with the sport over the past couple of months, but she comes to most of Suna’s matches. She has most of the rules memorized, and she’s always consistent with the praise she bestows upon him after the final whistle. She is content to merely sit in the same room as him as he watches the first match of the tournament, humming whenever Suna makes a comment under his breath.

“Do you think you’ll go to the Olympics some day, Onii-san?” The question comes out of the blue, after Japan has secured a win in the first set against Poland. The scratch of her colored pencils against the paper etches itself into his skull as he considers his answer.

His initial response is  _ no _ , because there is a long line of athletes who dream of becoming an Olympian, and even with all of their training and success, they never reach the international level. It’s natural for him to be logical about this. He is aware that his younger sister is at an age where she blabs about all of his achievements as if he is the best volleyball player in the world, and it’s important for him to remind her that ambition is not always enough to take you far.

But his heart wants to say,  _ I hope so _ . It’s like the cheers of the crowd match with each individual thump of his heart, and he licks his lips at the thought of being a part of a prestigious line up like that, stacked full of powerhouse players and stars. It’s a nice dream. It’s almost impossible.

Yet, Suna has done impossible things before. Other than the one striker he’s mimicked from his middle school tournament, he’s never met another attacker in person who hits the ball the way he does. He’s never been the most flexible of people, but he is now able to change his position in midair with ease. A year ago, that would’ve been impossible for him.

He’s never imagined a powerhouse school like Inarizaki would ever be interested in him. But his ability to bypass wide blocks has made him a formidable competitor, and his entire family is moving to Hyogo before the school year begins so he can see that journey through. A year ago, he didn’t care enough about volleyball to want to uproot his entire life for it. 

Suna has done the impossible before, and now that his sister has planted the seed in his head, he wants to let himself dream. He wants to imagine a red jersey with his name on the back, a number assigned to him alone, and he wants to join that sea of red and white. 

It’s a special kind of exhilaration to be viewed as one of the best athletes in your nation and represent your country. People try and fail every day to reach the Olympics. Suna should be logical about this.

Instead, what leaves his mouth is this: “Maybe.”

* * *

Japan wins their first match, and the bright grins glued to Atsumu and Aran’s faces remain burned on the back of Suna’s eyelids. The rest of the team disperse after another hour of small talk between them, gorging on the selection of snacks that Omimi brought. It is relaxing to catch up, but the painful reminder that the reason he is here is because he isn’t  _ there  _ scalds him. He’s the last to hang back, the others going ahead to meet up with their families for dinner, and Suna waits.

Osamu meets him at the front door, flicking off all of the light switches until the inside of Onigiri Miya descends into darkness. Suna hovers at his back while Osamu jams the key into the lock, waiting to hear the  _ click  _ signifying that the door is shut. It’s not like there’s much to steal inside, but Osamu isn’t taking any chances. 

“So where are ya headed?” Osamu asks. He drops his keys into his pocket and pats them once, the metal jangling against each other. 

“Home, probably.” Suna squints out at the street. It’s late enough in the evening that the streetlights are lit, casting an eerie glow across the pavement, and the silence surrounds them, only broken by the crunch of tires of a stray car passing by. “It’s not like I have anywhere I need to be.”

“You know I rent the apartment above the shop too, right?” Osamu points at the window above. “You can stay with me tonight if ya don’t feel like drivin’ back. We’ll order takeout. I haven’t gotten the chance to see ya in person in what feels like forever.”

Suna shares that sentiment at least. No matter the circumstances, seeing Osamu always makes his day a little better. He underestimated how much his absence would take a toll on him after high school. “Yeah? You sure?”

“’Course,” he says. “But yer buyin’. We don’t all have yer salary.”

Suna snorts. “That’s fair.”

He gestures for Osamu to lead the way around back—to where the back door connects to a lone staircase that climbs up to the apartment space, and as he stares at the spot between Osamu’s shoulder blades, he wonders if this is Osamu’s attempt at cheering him up—by not leaving him alone to sink further beneath the earth.

* * *

Suna blinks up at the ceiling of the bedroom in Osamu’s bare and undecorated apartment.

It’s clear at first glance that Osamu hasn’t moved in completely. His living room lacks any furniture besides a mountain of cardboard boxes, half of which are unpacked. His kitchen has enough utensils for one person, which makes Suna glad when the restaurant they order from adds disposable chopsticks with their meal. There is only one photograph hanging from the wall in Osamu’s bedroom. 

Suna inspected the frame carefully when he first entered. He knew the exact time and day this picture was taken because he’s in it. In front of the camera, Atsumu, Osamu, Gin, and Suna smile at the camera on the day of their graduation, grinning with smiling faces. Atsumu and Gin both look on the verge of tears as well, but the way all of their faces are pressed against each other makes the sadness fade that little bit more. He is happy for Atsumu. He  _ is.  _ Although he struggles to spit the words out in front of him, Suna really does love Atsumu, and he’d never wish him anything less than all of the success and happiness in the world.

Suna drops an arm across his stomach, and he turns his head to the side. 

Osamu lies a foot away on the futon, his face pressed into his pillow while his mouth hangs open. His dark hair is spread out against the cushion, and his grip on the covers tightens for the briefest of moments. 

When Osamu first suggested that they share one futon, Suna could only stare. Sure, they had slept in the same space together dozens of times over training camps and away games, but they were no longer the same gangly teenagers they once were. Suna is conscious of every twitch of his foot. Even with the distance separating them, he thinks it’s inevitable that they’ll brush against each other. And this isn’t good for his heart.

It’s fine being around Osamu in the daylight, but at night, when there aren’t witnesses around to watch them and his heart beats that much quicker and there’s nothing to distract him from the thoughts of desire that have followed him for the past year, Suna feels trapped. He couldn’t reject Osamu’s offer to share the futon without looking suspicious, but now, he thinks he should’ve anyway, because his chest keeps tightening.

With a huff, Suna turns onto his side and presses his knees together. If he’s not looking at Osamu, it’s almost like he can pretend he’s not there. His eyelids flutter shut, and his body relaxes to the sound of Osamu’s soft snores—

Until the colors of red and white burn his irises, and his chest tightens even more.

_ Don’t cry _ , he tells himself, even as his throat thickens and his eyes sting. He grits his teeth until it hurts.  _ Don’t cry. _

Suna isn’t a crier. He hates crying in public—or showing any sort of emotion in public, really. It isn’t that he doesn’t feel strong emotions in the moment—the kind that sway him until he breaks down. It’s that he’s mastered the art of holding those tears at bay until he’s alone and no one can hear him fall apart. Even when the rest of his teammates burst into tears over a loss, he’s the one that keeps it together. 

But it hurts too much now. It’s almost as if the tears are burning his insides the longer he tries to prevent them from spilling, and his bottom lip trembles. It’s like it doesn’t matter that Osamu is still with him. His body is either far too comfortable with Osamu to hold anything back or the dam is breaking of its own accord. 

All it takes is one slow blink before the tears stream down his face. 

His body starts to shake in silent sobs, and he hopes against all the odds that his whimpers are quiet enough to avoid waking Osamu. The last thing he needs is Osamu seeing his pitiful state. He presses his hands to his face instead, and they come away soaked in tears. 

“Stop,” he hisses to himself. His voice cracks on the word. “ _ Stop _ .” 

Suna curls in on himself more, drawing his knees up to his chest in the fetal position. The droplets stain his sweatpants as he buries his face in them, but it’s not enough to mask the distressing sounds leaving his throat.

He wants so much. He wants what Atsumu and Aran have, and even though the likelihood of being chosen to represent Japan is small, it’s what he’s always wanted. It’s why he couldn’t remain rational about it when his sister implanted the idea in his brain. He  _ wants, wants, wants _ —

Suna doesn’t register the pressure against the small of his back until the hand splays across his shirt. “Suna?”

His breath catches, and he hurries to wipe his tears off on his shirt, but Osamu turns him over before he can. 

The steadiness of Osamu’s gaze, even when tinged with the remnants of sleep, makes him freeze in place. His arms move with exaggerated slowness, as if he’s trying not to scare off a frightened animal, and both of his palms come to caress Suna’s face. 

The tenderness of it all spurs the tears on again, because Osamu is looking at him with such sadness—such sympathy—that he comes undone. 

Osamu drags his thumbs across Suna’s cheeks, fanning out the wetness, and Suna lets him. He stays absolutely still, even as his gut instinct is to jerk away and tear out of the apartment. He’s purposely never let Osamu see him like this. He’s only ever wanted Osamu to see him at his best—not in the storm of disaster. 

“Rin,” Osamu whispers, and the use of his given name surprises him so much that he holds his breath. “It’s okay. Yer okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Suna rasps. His voice sounds as though he hasn’t spoken in years. “I—”

“It’s okay,” Osamu repeats, and the gentleness in his tone makes Suna want to cry harder. His arms wind around Suna’s waist, and there’s no time for his brain to process the fact that Osamu is pressing him closer until his face is buried in Osamu’s shirt.

The two of them lie in the middle of the bed, Osamu’s arms braced around Suna until Suna’s body stops breaking out in tremors. Until the sobs turn into sniffles, and the tears dry on his skin. There’s a splotch in the middle of Osamu’s shirt from where the wetness has run through that he only notices once he peels his face away. 

“I just—” His voice cracks again, and Suna growls in frustration. At himself. At everything. “I  _ am  _ happy for them. I just…I want to be happy for myself too.”

“I know,” Osamu says. When Suna tries to pull away, Osamu’s grip on him tightens. “Ya don’t hafta move away, Suna.”

Suna doesn’t know what to say to that. He and Osamu have hugged before. They’ve expressed their happiness through physical touches numerous times, but an embrace after Suna has been left exposed and aching is far more of an intimate position than anything else they’ve done thus far. They’ve never actually  _ cuddled  _ before. 

Suna isn’t a crier, and he’s certainly not a touchy-feely person either. He likes the occasional hug or high five, but he’s not the kind of person who clings to his friends’ arms as if he’s glued to their sides or expresses his affection through kisses. 

But—he supposes that if he were to try those kinds of things out, he’d like to try them with Osamu first.

“Oh,” Suna mumbles. He doesn’t know where to put his hands. Where can he place them safely without crossing a line? Osamu has his hands on Suna’s back. After a second, Suna decides that holding the front of Osamu’s shirt is a neutral place to leave them. “Sorry.”

“Ya don’t hafta apologize,” Osamu says. His chin rests against the top of Suna’s head, and it takes all of Suna’s resolve not to make an embarrassing noise under his breath. “I know it’s frustrating seein’ them and not bein’ with them. Yer allowed to be disappointed.”

“Yeah. But it sucks because I should be happy for them. It’s incredible—being chosen to represent Japan. I wouldn’t even say that I’m jealous. I just want to join them.”

“I know.” Osamu draws a soothing circle into the small of Suna’s back. “You’ll get there, ya know. Yer gonna join them. Maybe not now. But ya will.”

He understands what Osamu is trying to do, but that flare of hope doesn’t ignite how it once did. The distance between him and his former teammates has become wider than ever. He thought he’d closed the gap after high school—in the way he never could before. When everyone else sprints ahead, Suna falls behind. It’s how it has been for a long time. 

The name  _ Miya Atsumu  _ is a household name, but  _ Suna Rintarou  _ isn’t even close to being memorable yet. 

“Ya will, Suna,” Osamu insists. His nose nuzzles the crown of Suna’s head, and Suna hums. “Yer gonna get there. Someday, I’ll be able to buy yer national jersey online too. And ya won’t be here in Hyogo. You’ll be with them wherever they are.”

Suna grits his teeth. He  _ wants, wants, wants _ . How much more can he take before he can’t pull himself back up? Which blow will be the one that he can’t recover from? 

He presses his eyes shut, so tightly that it hurts, and he lets himself imagine a mirage of red and white and a jersey with a number that’s made for him.

* * *

International break meets its end, and the next season of the V. League begins. It’s a continuous cycle that Suna treasures, and he hopes he can look forward to that first match—that first victory—for many years to come. He never takes the bubble of the cheering crowd for granted, and the thrill of putting on his uniform shirt eases into a comforting routine. 

Although his blocking abilities don’t reach new heights overnight, there is a gradual change in his skills. What he lacks in height is made up for with his swiftness and flexibility, and he can’t afford to lose even a millimeter when it comes to the timing of the jump. Each aspect of the block takes time to grow and nurture, and it is an ongoing process that he fosters deep into his professional career. Suna reaches a point where reporters can no longer use his height as a reason for underestimating him as a blocker; he’s become too formidable an opponent with his other weapons to be brushed off like that.

But defeat is a part of every sport, and its crushing impact can never be escaped. Suna knows this, even from his first matches in middle school. He holds onto defeat like a dying flame, memorizing the way it burns his insides and leaves its scars. It doesn’t matter how much he continues to grow as a player. Defeat still hovers at his shoulders, waiting for an opportune moment to greet him again, and this time, it comes in the form of the Schweiden Adlers.

Suna has always hated blocking Ushijima Wakatoshi when he was in high school. That dislike hasn’t faded with time. He can respect him as a strong opponent, but the way he challenges Suna every time they meet sets Suna on edge. And Ushijima has only grown stronger the more he’s grown into himself, and the team no longer revolves solely on his spikes. 

The Schweiden Adlers stand strong with or without Ushijima Wakatoshi. They have Hoshiumi Korai and Kageyama Tobio within their ranks as well, and their own middle blockers withstand the most deadly of spikes. It isn’t abnormal for them to walk away with victory tucked beneath their belts, but it leaves Suna winded. 

Defeat curdles within his stomach, even as he goes about his cooldown, and frustration clouds his vision. Not even the claps from the fans are enough to sweeten his mood. His features morph into the straight face he carried all throughout high school. It’s better that than the scowl he wants to wear. There are far too many cameras lurking about for him to give anyone the chance to meme him on the Internet. 

“Hey,” Komori starts, his voice as chipper as usual, as if they haven’t been wrung through a five-set match and still turned out with a loss, “isn’t that a Miya?”

“Huh?” Washio squints in the general direction Komori is facing. “I think that is. I can’t tell which one, though.”

Suna does the mental calculations in his head. Atsumu had an away match yesterday, and he’d have no reason to be here, so it must be—

“If his hair is dyed, it’s Atsumu,” Komori says. “But he’s wearing a hat, so I can’t tell.”

“It’s Osamu,” Suna says without turning around to confirm. A shiver races down his spine, and he twists in place to confirm his suspicions. Sure enough, Osamu has his forearms braced against the metal railing on the level above, his Onigiri Miya cap covering his hair. His lips twist in a wry smile when he notices Suna looking at him, and he lifts his hand.

“You sure?” Washio asks. “How can you tell?”

“Osamu hasn’t stopped wearing that hat since his business opened.”

It took a solid year to hit the ground running, but the first branch of Onigiri Miya opened in Hyogo a month back. Business has boomed thanks to the recognition it’s gotten on social media due to the support of several of the V. League’s most popular players, including Suna himself. He’d posted a picture of him and Osamu in front of the shop on opening day before captioning it and urging people to flock out and see Osamu’s success in person. 

The recipes Osamu has spent years crafting have been perfected, and the agreements between his business and Kita’s farm for the consistent supply of rice have been formed. The kitchen is stocked with up-to-date appliances, and the seating area is arranged with multiple kinds of tables that lead up to the glass counter display. Osamu has a crew of employees working several hours to keep up with their long list of orders, and he’s started catering for a lot of MSBY’s matches this season. Still, he isn’t close to satisfied. He tells this to Suna in that exact wording, but he doesn’t need to: Suna can see the hunger in his gaze, that desire for more, and the look isn’t dissimilar to the one Suna wears all the time.

Suna hasn’t ever seen Osamu host his onigiri stand at one of his matches, though. Luck isn’t on his side if the one match Osamu saw is the one EJP Raijin lost. 

At least, defeat no longer feels so heavy. After changing and wishing his farewells to the rest of the team, Suna waits for most of the fans to file out of the gymnasium before meeting up with Osamu. 

“Oh no,” Osamu says, holding a hand to his eyes. “Yer tracksuit. It’s too bright.”

Suna’s nose wrinkles. “Hah. Funny.” Suna glances past him to see that the stand has already been boarded up, the leftovers hidden out of sight. “How were sales today?”

“Good!” He nods. “I’m pretty happy ‘bout it. We gained a lot more profit than I’d expected.”

“You were the only employee manning the stand?”

“Yeah. No worries, though.” Osamu stretches his arms out behind his back. “I’ve done it before. I’ve mastered the art of gettin’ through a long line on my own by now.” He pauses and drops his arms to his sides. “I’m sorry about how the game went.”

Suna shrugs. He can’t win them all, no matter how good he gets. This is something he repeats to himself over the years. Defeat is inevitable, but as long as he holds onto his ambition, defeat never becomes the end. Besides, with Osamu here, the pain of today’s loss is more distant. He can’t focus on his mistakes during the match. It’s time to look toward the future and start again the next practice. The memories that drag you down are unnecessary. 

“It’s cool,” he says. “It’s our first loss of the season. If we had to lose to anyone, I’d put my money on the Adlers.”

“Tsumu is already braggin’ ‘bout how he’s gonna wipe the floor with ya next time after yer team beat MSBY last week. Ya should watch out for that.”

Suna smirks. It’s rare that he gets to hold a victory over Atsumu’s head, but it relishes in it whenever he can. “I’m sure he is. He can try all he likes.”

Osamu laughs before tucking his hands into his pockets and striding toward the exit. He grabs a cardboard takeaway box from the top of the stand on his way out. Suna follows a step behind.

“I like it when ya get like this,” Osamu says. “All confident ‘n that. Ya never used to brag that much ‘bout yer own abilities in high school. I like it that ya believe in yerself more.”

Suna nearly trips over his own feet. Thankfully, he doesn’t, because that would be  _ embarrassing _ , especially for a professional athlete. But Osamu’s remark cuts too close to home—hits too close to all of those snide whispers that Suna Rintarou is a fine player, but nowhere near the immense talent of the Miyas. 

“Yeah,” Suna says. “Well. I’ve gotten better since high school. Sometimes, I look back at old footage from our matches, and I want to scream at myself whenever I fall for obvious decoys or don’t move fast enough to stop the spike. I’d say I’m more confident because I genuinely believe I’m a much better player now.”

“You are,” Osamu agrees. “Ya would not believe how long Tsumu ranted on the phone to me last week. He was all, ‘Fuckin’ Suna and his fuckin’ blocks. I hate his stupid guts. I can’t believe how annoyin’ he’s gotten.’ Which ya know is code for: Suna is infuriatin’ me ‘cause he keeps shuttin’ down all of our spikes.”

Pleasure worms its way into his gut, and for the first time since the final whistle, his lips tilt up in a small smile. 

“There it is,” Osamu murmurs. He pumps a fist into the air and switches his hold on the takeout box into his other hand. “I got him to smile, everybody!”

“Psh.” He purposely flattens his lips into a straight line. “You did not.”

“Yes, I did.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“C’mon, Suna.” He showcases the box in his arms. “I even saved ya some onigiri for yer dinner.”

Oh. That’s what the takeout box was for. Osamu thought of him. Suna jerks his head to the side before Osamu notices the blush dusting his cheeks. “So what?” he spits out, all flustered. “Are ya gonna terrorize my apartment tonight?”

“Mmhmm,” Osamu hums, tilting his head up to the sky. The sun has just started to set, dipping below the clouds until it meets the horizon, and the evening glow fits Osamu well, even against the all-black attire of his work uniform. “Lemme cook for ya. Lemme stay over.”

It would be nice, he thinks. In the dead of night, when those unwanted thoughts creep in over their loss, it would be nice if Osamu’s presence manages to drive them off. It’s been so long since he’s had anyone over, anyway. It’s been a while since someone has stopped by for the sole purpose of taking care of him. He’s never been able to turn Osamu away to begin with. Not since he’s realized his feelings for Osamu go further beneath the surface. Not since Osamu has touched the outer edges of his heart.

“Fine,” he says, though the blunt word is forced with a note of nonchalance. “Whatever.”

Suna wonders then if he’ll ever work up the courage to admit to Osamu that his smile is electrifying against the sun’s rays. 

* * *

It isn’t until the middle of his third year at Inarizaki High School that Suna comes to the realization that volleyball is not the only thing he’s ambitious about. This understanding is a long time coming, seeping into his bones until it’s impossible to deny, and even then, Suna doesn’t recognize this truth until it sits in front of him, demanding his attention.

He’s finished his bento box alone this lunch period. Normally, he has Osamu to talk to, the two of them following each other through each class and subject, and considering Suna is not the most sociable person in the world, he doesn’t have many friends outside of the club. Without Osamu, everything becomes painfully…lonely. His awareness of this fact registers when Osamu is beckoned out of their class by one of the girls in their year.

She’s pretty and dainty and small, Suna supposes. He can’t recall her name, but he recalls the confession letter held tightly between her hands as she calls out Osamu’s name and leads him to a quiet corner in the hallway. Though he usually doesn’t care enough to know about the multiple confessions Atsumu and Osamu get on a weekly basis, his brain has become tuned in to the exchange going on outside the door. As far as he knows, despite the blatant interest many show in both twins, it’s rare for either of them to accept a confession and start dating. It’s alluring, sure, to date a popular high school athlete. That is—until you realize that they have no free time to spend with you, and their sole interest lies in the sport they play. 

Still, he wonders whether this time will be the one Osamu accepts. Nationals are coming up, so any sort of distraction would impact the team, and it wouldn’t be logical to start a relationship when graduation hovers in the distance, but—

Suna sets aside his chopsticks as Osamu slips back into the classroom. Suna’s eyes flick down to the envelope he has clutched in his hand, but his mouth remains sealed until Osamu plops down in the seat beside him. 

“Gah,” Osamu says. “We have English next. My notes from yesterday are utter crap.”

Suna hums. In the beginning of their tentative friendship, he used to think about whether Osamu was ever discouraged by his noncommittal responses or his one-word replies. Over time, the amount of words that leave his mouth have increased, though he’s uncertain whether Osamu has noticed. “Mmhmm.”

“Can I see yers? Just to see if I’ve at least covered everything.”

“Sure.” Suna plucks his notebook out of his messenger bag and slides it over. “Here.”

He pauses. Waits. Osamu flips open the cover and rifles through the pages until he reaches the set of notes with yesterday’s date. His finger drags down the paper as he compares Suna’s messy writing with his own. 

“So,” Suna says, trying to sound disinterested, “what did she say?”

“Who?”

“The girl who just came over here. Isn’t that a confession letter?”

Osamu glances at the envelope he tucked into his own bag. “Oh. Right. Yeah. It’s not gonna work.”

Suna doesn’t know why Osamu’s response sends a thrill down his spine. He doesn’t know why pleasure coils in his gut, and his usual flat smile quirks up into something more. “Ah.”

“She seems sweet, but, uh, it’s not gonna work.” Osamu shuts Suna’s notebook after copying the last of Suna’s work, and he slides it back over to Suna, who shoves it back in his bag. “Thanks for that.”

“No problem,” Suna says.

Osamu crosses both of his arms onto the top of his desk and drops his head as if he’s created a makeshift pillow. He tilts his head to the side, his profile facing Suna, and his eyelids flutter shut. A beat passes, and when Osamu doesn’t make any further movements, Suna ponders whether he really has fallen asleep. 

Steeling himself with a shaky breath, Suna raises one arm and rests his hand on the top of Osamu’s head. Osamu doesn’t let out a single noise of surprise. He must be asleep. 

Suna squints to see whether Osamu is faking it, but every muscle in Osamu’s body is completely frozen. The gentle rise and fall of his shoulders is the only movement he makes. 

Suna digs his fingers into the sweep of gray tangles and drags his hand down to where the longer locks meet the start of his undercut. 

“Mmm.”

Suna stiffens.

“Keep doin’ that, Suna,” Osamu murmurs. His voice is thicker than usual. Suna almost wishes he would keep speaking so he can hear it more. “It feels nice.”

Suna lets out a low chuckle, but the breathiness of it gives away his nervousness. Why is he nervous? This is Osamu. There’s nothing wrong with touching his hair. Friends touch each other’s hair all the time. This is strictly platonic. 

“Yeah?” Suna asks. “Alright then.” His gentle touch slides along the scalp, and he continues weaving his fingers through the longer strands of gray. Osamu has had his hair like this for so long. He can’t imagine what he’ll look like with his natural color now that he’s older. 

“Keep goin’,” Osamu whispers. It almost sounds like a plea, but his ears must be deceiving him. 

“So demanding,” Suna coos. “If you want someone to stroke your hair so badly, get a girlfriend.”

Osamu peels one eye open. “Why would I do that when I have you?” 

Suna’s hand stills at the crown of Osamu’s head. A beat passes, and he remembers to laugh it off—as if Osamu hasn’t planted a little curdle of hope in Suna’s mind. 

Suna doesn’t understand. Is he jealous? Is that what this is? And what is he jealous of? Once Osamu shuts his eyes again, he resumes his process of running his hand through Osamu’s hair—one, because it’s calming, and two, because he likes it and he doesn’t have the time to process what  _ that  _ entails. 

Suna scowls. Maybe he wishes he had more of Osamu’s attention. But that doesn’t sit quite right. He and Osamu spend several hours a day together, back to back. If anything, he should wish for Osamu to give him  _ less  _ attention and to spend more time with other people, giving Suna more time alone. But that doesn’t sound right either. 

It’s true that he never tires of Osamu’s company, and it’s true that he always sides with Osamu whenever he and Atsumu start another round of their petty bickering. It’s true that he stares at Osamu a little more whenever he touches up his hair, and it’s true that he spends an inordinate amount of time watching Osamu during practice, but that doesn’t  _ mean  _ anything. 

It makes perfect sense from a scientific standpoint. His brain is so used to Osamu that it’s natural to seek him out in every situation. Right? 

His scowl deepens. He’s not sure whether he’s right at all. He doubts he’s made any sense during his train of messy thoughts. At least, Osamu hasn’t asked him to stop touching his hair. 

Suna imagines that girl from before—the one with the neat confession letter and a smile made for Osamu—in his exact position, and suddenly, his teeth clench. Heat flares upward in a hot rush, and his shoes brace against the floor. He doesn’t want to imagine it. He never wants to consider someone touching Osamu like  _ this. _

He wants to be the only one Osamu asks to do these tender actions. 

His sudden awareness knocks the wind out of him, and his lips part around a gasp. 

“Suna?”

“Huh?”

“A little lower please.”

“Oh.” Suna barely notices that his hand has stopped moving, and he guides it to the spot Osamu instructs him to. “There?”

“Yeah.” Osamu makes a content noise, and the sound strikes Suna in the heart. 

Suddenly, he feels a greater pang of sympathy for the girl from before—and all those who might’ve confessed to Osamu in the past. Suna has wanted impossible things for his entire life. He dreams of being signed to a division one team and being called up to represent Japan. But somehow, the idea of Osamu returning even a sliver of his affection feels like the most impossible thing of all. 

Ambitious is not a word associated with Suna Rintarou, but he believes he is ambitious about two things and two things only—volleyball and Miya Osamu. 

* * *

Miya Osamu has a tendency to make himself at home in any kitchen no matter who it belongs to. Suna has been a witness to this fact over the years many times. He’s watched Osamu make a mess in his own house, but it’s a strange experience to observe Osamu as he is now, hustling about before serving up dinner for the both of them. 

Suna’s movements grow sluggish by the hour, the aftereffects of the loss infiltrating his actions, and his posture slumps with each minute that passes. When Osamu stands to dump their dishes into the sink, he returns with the takeout box of onigiri from his stand in hand. 

“What kind is it?” Suna lifts his brows once, but doesn’t extend his arms towards the box. 

“Tuna mayo,” Osamu says, setting it down in front of Suna. “Ya can tell me this time if the filling amount is enough.” That is almost enough to make Suna crack a smile in the wake of defeat, but his expression remains flat as ever. “Oh, c’mon, Suna. Ya hafta eat. Yer havin’ the creator of Onigiri Miya serve ya dinner personally, and you’ve barely said anythin’.”

“It’s not—” It’s not Osamu’s fault. It isn’t. Suna knows that he hits these kinds of terrible slumps after walking away from a match as the loser. Any kind of emotions he has right now are out of Osamu’s control. “Thank you. I’m grateful. I just—”

The rest of the sentence falls unsaid, and he watches Osamu curl up on the floor beside him, tucking his legs beneath him. Osamu undoes the top of the box and flips the lid over, revealing several onigiri placed perfectly in a row. He plucks out the first and pushes it towards Suna’s mouth.

“Eat,” he orders. It’s the most commanding Suna has ever seen him with anyone other than Atsumu. Even when they were the oldest on the team and they had senior privileges, Osamu wasn’t the type to hold authority over the others like that. 

Suna parts his lips, and the onigiri is pushed against his teeth. Taking it from Osamu’s hand, he bites down. It’s only after a few mouthfuls that he says, “The filling is good. Much better.”

Osamu’s eyes glinted with pride. “’Course they are. I took yer advice to heart.” His gaze is as razor-sharp as that of a fox’s while he waits for Suna to keep eating.

While Suna makes his way through the contents, Osamu reaches up and pulls his uniform shirt over his head. For a brief second, Suna’s eyes widen, thinking that Osamu is stripping in front of him. But the flash of bright yellow does something entirely different to his insides. 

Osamu catches him staring. “What?”

“You’re—” Suna sputters. His mouth can’t form any syllables. Anything he wants to say has flown out the window. All he can see is that brilliant yellow and white, and the number that matches his own jersey printed across Osamu’s front. Osamu is wearing his jersey. Osamu has  _ bought  _ his jersey, and he wore it to the game today beneath his uniform shirt. “You’re…”

Osamu smoothens down the wrinkles on the front. His wry smile almost becomes a smirk, as if he knows the kind of effect he has on Suna. “Sorry I couldn’t wear it during the match. I am meant to be kinda neutral.”

“I—what?” His face feels like it’s burning. Osamu must notice. The lighting isn’t dark enough for him to miss it. 

“Keep eatin’, Suna.”

In the end, Suna manages to scarf down five before he can’t stomach any more. Satisfied that Suna’s eaten enough after playing a five-set match, Osamu takes the leftovers back into the kitchen. 

“So,” he begins when he returns, “can I share yer bed with ya?”

* * *

Suna can’t fathom how he’s wound up in this position. It’s almost identical to the time when he slept over at Osamu’s apartment before it was filled with furniture and made more like a home, and all he could do was stare up at the ceiling while a foot of space separated them on the mattress. This time, the pain isn’t as palpable, but it lingers in the back of his mind, a dull ache that hardens when Suna reflects on it. 

_ We don’t need memories _ , he tells himself.  _ Just move forward. _

It would be a lie to say that the loss is the only thing on his mind. That would almost be preferable, except for the fact that it seems like that night has changed something in his and Osamu’s dynamic. The two of them had never defined their friendship through physical touches, but it’s like an invisible boundary has been crossed.

Osamu is wearing his jersey. Well, not his, exactly. But he’s wearing a jersey with Suna’s last name and number printed across it. His senses are overloaded trying to make sense of it all, and to top it off, Osamu has his hand on Suna’s  _ hipbone _ .

There is nothing objectively arousing about a hipbone. It’s a fucking bone. It meets the border where the waistband of Suna’s shorts end. There’s nothing special about it. Sure, it’s a nice place to put your hand while kissing someone or pulling them closer, but there’s nothing necessarily  _ intimate  _ about leaving your palm there.

Yet, Suna can’t focus on anything other than the placement of Osamu’s hand. It lies against his bare skin, stroking calming circles against the bone, and it takes every ounce of self-control that he has to keep from screaming. 

When he turns his head to the side, Osamu’s face is turned away from him, and he’s met with a nest of dark tangles of hair. It almost makes Suna think the action is involuntary, but come  _ on.  _ Osamu has to have at least a sliver of awareness of what this is doing to Suna. 

It’s the combination of everything: from the jersey to the foot of space to the same mattress to the shared breaths to the hipbone, and it’s driving Suna closer and closer to the edge. He’s managed to keep his feelings at bay for over a year now, but before he knows it, he’ll wind up saying the wrong thing. And his relationship with Osamu will be ruined. He’d rather have Osamu in some capacity than not have him at all. 

Just as he thinks he might be able to ignore Osamu and fall asleep, Osamu’s fingers drag up his side in what feels like a deliberate swipe. Suna’s breath catches in his throat as they dip beneath his shorts, past the waistband that had provided some border between their skin, along where his right thigh begins. 

It still isn’t the most arousing of touches, but it certainly piques Suna’s interest after a long dry spell of  _ nothing. _

As quickly as Osamu’s hand slipped beneath his waistband, the touch disappears, and Osamu yanks his hand back. 

Suna catches him by the wrist before he can pull his arm away completely and pretend that never happened. “Osamu?”

“Sorry,” Osamu whispers, the word heavy in the silence. “I shouldn’t have done that. I got carried away.” Suna resists the urge to scoff and say:  _ That was carried away?  _ “I didn’t mean to make ya uncomfortable.” Osamu sits up, and the duvet crumples around his waist. “I can take the guest futon.”

“What?” Suna can’t even make sense of what Osamu is saying. What is he apologizing for? “Huh?”

“I’ll just—”

Suna tightens his grip around Osamu’s wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough to ensure Osamu stays put. “What are you apologizing for?”

It’s too dark for him to see Osamu’s face clearly. If he squints, he can glimpse the bright tones of the EJP Raijin jersey he wears, but he can’t tell his expression from this distance and this lighting. It’s impossible to figure out Osamu’s turmoil of emotions if Osamu can’t speak them aloud. 

“I…”

Suna brings his other arm up and pushes Osamu back onto the mattress, his head bouncing against the pillow. Suna pushes himself up until his body is braced over Osamu’s, and he peers closer to see Osamu’s face, even as Osamu tilts his head to the side. “What are you apologizing for?”

Osamu makes a noncommittal sound before dragging his eyes up toward the ceiling. It takes Suna a second to realize that he’s avoiding eye contact purposely, and the realization that he might be making Osamu uncomfortable hits him like a truck. He pushes himself back. “Osamu. Please.”

He can tell the exact moment Osamu meets his gaze. In the next instant, Suna bends forward—because now that he’s here, he realizes how much he wants this. His mouth finds Osamu’s in the shadows, and he makes a few experimental moves to pry Osamu’s lips apart before he registers that Osamu is frozen beneath him.

_ Oh, fuck.  _ Suna leans backward so quickly he nearly gets whiplash. “Oh, fuck,” he says out loud. “I’m so sorry. Did I…did I completely misread that?”

The flush that overcomes him is unlike any other that he’s had in Osamu’s presence. It has never been his intention to make Osamu  _ uncomfortable _ , and the thought that he has sits heavily on his chest. He’s lost Osamu. There’s no going back from this. Osamu might fake politeness and smiles, but he’ll never look at Suna the same way again. 

The only thing that manages to snap Suna out of his panic is the pair of hands that reach for him. “Rin, please,” Osamu whispers, and it sounds so close to a plea that Suna settles into the caress—that he lets Osamu pull him back again. 

It still sends a shock through him when Osamu meets his mouth, returning the kiss that he’d frozen for when surprise overcame his senses, and in the back of his mind, as Osamu’s breath fans his face, Suna thinks that this is what he’s wanted for so long, and the joy it brings surpasses all of his expectations.

Osamu tastes like Suna’s mint toothpaste. That thought registers briefly before the rest are washed away when Osamu’s tongue runs along the bottom row of Suna’s teeth, and the rush of pleasure goes straight to his groin. 

“Osamu,” he murmurs as he runs his hand through Osamu’s hair—because it’s all he’s wanted to do for years. 

He’s so distracted that when Osamu flips him over onto his back, all Suna can muster is a wide-eyed look. Osamu kisses him again, and this one lingers like the best kind of bubbly champagne, making his lips tingle. It’s almost too good to be true. He’s loved Osamu for so long, and he’s always convinced himself that his life has already turned out better than he could hope for. He’s a professional athlete: a fact not many people can declare. He starts on a division one team for the sport he loves: another fact that makes him incredibly lucky.

Is he selfish for wanting more? Is he too greedy? He can already feel luck shining down on him. Will it turn away when he admits that he isn’t satisfied? When will he feel satisfied? These are all questions that brush the back of his mind, and Osamu must notice that his head is somewhere else because he separates them, ignoring the whine that leaves Suna’s throat. 

“Rintarou,” Osamu says, and Suna smiles. It’s a genuine one too, one that he can tell Osamu mirrors, even if it’s too dark to make out the exact curve of his lips. Osamu’s hands drop to his hips on either side, and Suna holds his breath as Osamu slips his hand beneath his underwear to grip Suna’s erection.

Every quickened thump of his heart is deafening in his eardrums, and as all the blood rushes downward, his gaze fixes on the outline of Osamu’s profile, drawn to every breathy sound he makes. 

The friction is off at first, but Osamu finds a rhythm that works for both of them, and his grip slides with an assuredness Suna wouldn’t be able to replicate right now. It’s almost as if this is all happening to someone else. As if this isn’t Osamu, his friend—his best friend. One of his favorite people. The one person he convinced himself he could never have, not like this—

“How long?” Suna gasps as he pushes his legs further apart, giving Osamu all the room he needs.

“Huh?” Osamu has moved closer in the last few seconds, and there’s a noticeable furrow between his brows that drives Suna nuts. 

The pace never changes, and Suna can feel himself edge closer and closer to his release. He’s wanted this for so long that he won’t last, and that might be embarrassing if this were anyone but Osamu— _ Osamu, Osamu, Osamu _ —

“How long have you known?” Suna forces out between clenched teeth, before the last of his sanity snaps and he can no longer form a coherent thought. He knows Osamu doesn’t need him to finish the question.  _ How long have you known that you liked me _ ?

“I dunno,” Osamu says, his gaze fixed downward, his concentration focused even as he considers Suna’s question. Suna’s toes curl, and he grips the sheets around him in tight fistfuls. “It might’ve been—ah—during our first trainin’ camp. Ya woke up early so I followed ya to see what ya were up to, and I watched ya do yer fuckin’— _ fuck _ —core exercises. You were so meticulous and careful ‘bout it that I was fuckin’ mesmerized. Ya looked so fuckin’ cool.”

Suna’s lips form the word  _ oh,  _ but the sound never leaves him. 

“Or maybe—it was after I first dyed my hair, and ya kept lookin’ at me, and I thought that this was all worth it if ya kept givin’ me all of yer attention like that.” 

Suna is so close, and he opens his mouth to tell Osamu that, but before he can, Osamu squeezes the base of his dick, as if he is keenly aware that Suna is about to reach his peak, and he’s not ready to let him. 

_ Fucking asshole _ , Suna mouths, and Osamu lets out a laugh that borders on breathless. 

“Or maybe,” Osamu continues, his grip loosening, “it was the first time I called ya over to test my onigiri. That brat wasn’t home, and you were the first person I called. It was fuckin’ raining, and ya still ran over anyway ‘cause I’d asked ya to. Ya stood in front of my door, shakin’ and tremblin’ ‘cause yer fuckin’ clothes were soaked, and all ya said was, ‘I’m hungry.’ I gave ya clothes to wear, but ya sat at our table for hours with yer fuckin’ hair all wet, and I realized that I loved ya even though yer a massive fuckin’ idiot.”

His orgasm is overpowering until he falls back to earth again, his senses dulled and exhaustion clinging to his bones. He needs to change before he falls asleep again, but the weariness that worms its way inside him almost encourages him to sleep like this. 

His chest continues to heave even as Osamu drops down on the mattress beside him, jostling the entire bed. 

“You just said”—he stops to take another breath—“you love me.”

“Mmhmm,” Osamu hums into his pillow. “Yer very lovable.”

“You love me.” Suna wears a tired, sleepy smile, and he’s so happy that nothing can bring him down from this high. Not even the reminder of today’s loss can sour his mood. He’s on another level. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Yeah. But ya love me too. So it’s okay.”

“Mmhmm,” Suna agrees, because it’s the truth. He loves Osamu. Every single cell in his body knows it. “I do.”

* * *

The V. League season comes to its end again, as consistent as always, and EJP Raijin sit at a comfortable third place within the rankings. It’s enough for now, and Suna lets himself dream of more.

When international break arrives, Atsumu and Aran are called up.

So is Suna.

* * *

Suna dreams of a mirage of red and white for years, and he gets to witness it in person at the Olympics. It still feels surreal, even though it’s been weeks since the announcement. Even though he stands amongst the monster generation. Even though he wears a red jersey with his name printed on the back with a number assigned to him alone. 

There is a long line of athletes who dream of becoming an Olympian, and even with all of their training and success, they never reach the international level. Suna is not one of them. He makes it. He does the impossible thing.

The cheers of the crowd match with each individual thump of his heart, and he licks his lips as his gaze sweeps along their prestigious line up stacked full of his rivals and former teammates and current teammates. He’s no longer trailing behind. He’s caught up, and he gets to join them. 

It’s a special kind of exhilaration to be viewed as one of the best athletes in your nation and represent your country. People try and fail every day to reach the Olympics. Suna succeeds. 

He thinks of the rest of Inarizaki back in Hyogo, huddled in front of the television screen, hoping to catch a glimpse of their former teammates. He thinks of his family at home, and his sister watching the match with keen interest, because she knows how much it means to Suna. He thinks of those reporters, eating their words even if they no longer remember what they said. He thinks of every seed of doubt that has grown in his mind over the years, and he sheds them all with a smile.

He thinks of Osamu, the two of them reaching the height of their dreams at the same time, still connected even with distance, and his smile widens. He remembers the jersey Osamu bought the second they went on sale online, and he wonders how it looks hanging in the store. He wonders how many customers Osamu will brag to today about his achievements. It should be embarrassing, but it warms his heart. He’ll call him later today, and the excitement in Suna’s voice will be mirrored in his. 

It’s an impossible dream, but he’s made it possible.

“Hey, look at that,” Atsumu cries out, his thick finger right in front of Suna’s nose. “Suna’s smilin’! Aran! Come see! Suna’s smilin’! Someone get the camera!”

“There are cameras everywhere, Miya,” Sakusa comments with a roll of the eyes. 

Ignoring him, Atsumu pinches Suna’s cheeks. “Yer so happy, Suna! I’m so glad.”

Suna smacks his arm away. “Of course I’m happy,” Suna shoots back. He can’t hold back his beam even if he tries, and judging by the smile Aran gives him, it’s the brightest he’s ever looked. “This is what I’ve always wanted.”

Atsumu giggles, the sound almost washed away with the roar of the crowd, and he nudges Suna with an elbow. “Glad to have ya back, Suna. Ready to hit all my sets again?”

Suna wants to roll his eyes at Atsumu, but he’s just as glad to be with his old teammates as his smile suggests. He’ll hit all the sets Atsumu sends him—if he gets to play—and he won’t complain about a single one. 

Suna straightens. 

Ambitious becomes a word associated with Suna Rintarou, and after nearly three decades, so is the word Olympian.

  
  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> (1) first, if you enjoyed this fic at all, please leave a comment or a kudos below! your feedback means the world to me, and it does wonders for my inspiration. 
> 
> (2) i started this fic the day before christmas when we all collectively found out that suna rintarou made the national team. (and yes, i wrote 17k in a week. let's not talk about it.) it's been a wild ride, mostly because i wrote this without an outline (uh!!!!!!) and wrote by the seat of my pants, but it has been rly fun to get into suna's head and explore a lot of his thoughts throughout his career to get to the happy ending he deserves. 
> 
> (3) yes, ejp raijin's uniforms have yellow accents. it's so big-brained of them.
> 
> (4) i'm happy to add another contribution to the small corner that is the sunaosa tag. i hope you enjoyed a more canon interpretation of these two by yours truly. 
> 
> (5) the conversation about tall legs is actually something my own mother told me once. but uh, i did not recite it so eloquently here, and the meaning might've gotten lost somewhere. (and i am a tiny person so.) 
> 
> (6) i have no idea what i'm writing next. i just seek chaos as it comes. 
> 
> (7) if you would like to see more of my writing shitposts, feel free to follow my [twitter](https://twitter.com/akaashikejis)
> 
> (8) again, i hope you enjoyed this piece and that it provides some level of satisfaction to our collective curiosity since learning about suna being on the national team. wishing you all a nice start to the new year, and hoping you're all well.


End file.
